


The Guitar Man

by Left_Handed_Rick



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Audiophile, Failed Relationships, Infatuation, Late Stage Capitalism, M/M, Obsession, Opposites Attract, Record store au, Rivals to Lovers, Stalking, Summer Fling, Time Dysphoria, audio kink, bilingual rick, bulk data collection, data brokering, disenfranchisement, dystopian themes, ennui, failed romance, information brokering, mainstream music, mass surveillance, mental distress, radio station AU, upbeat depression, voice play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24436117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/pseuds/Left_Handed_Rick
Summary: “Stay tuned to the Sanchez Summer Sizzle Countdown for more.”
Relationships: Morty Smith/Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Rick Sanchez
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20
Collections: Interconnected Fics from The Starry Citadel AU





	The Guitar Man

**Author's Note:**

> ### Author's Note/Introduction
> 
> June 21st! The Summer Solstice! The longest day of the year! The perfect time for a fic about Summer on the Citadel! This fic takes place BEFORE[ Take Me to Church,](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/tmtc.html) and in fact, is the very relationship R often mentions in that fic. 
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta readers, [ OhGeeze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhGeeze/pseuds/OhGeeze) and Sqk! 
> 
> This fic is titled after both versions of The Guitar Man. Originally produced by [Bread ](https://open.spotify.com/track/6MOtjGcj62i72t3K7rMVoO?si=TqOIpeCWQLWfQ1wB0qewuw)(the 60’s slang term for money), and later covered by [Cake](https://open.spotify.com/track/7shU2ah5hpW9QoaJuwkHdC?si=bn5NXJNZTEid2D-9EIsZ9w). And that difference is everything you need to know about these two Ricks. 
> 
> As always, more shamelessly indulgent meta and art over on the [fic page. ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/guitar-man.html)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now clever feet that flicker like fire,_   
>  _And burn like candles in smoky spires,_   
>  _Do more to turn my joy to sadness,_   
>  _Than somber thoughts of burning planets..._   
>  _  
>  [—Nugget, CAKE](https://open.spotify.com/track/1h9Bx0bcEIfiv31E2G58Hf?si=bYiYL-qnQvyZXUQevq7W4A)   
>  _

“...It's the top of the hour for another _beautiful,_ starry day, and you're listening to the voice of Radio Rick, speaking to you live from SCR as we kick off Sanchez Summer Sizzle with a countdown. We’ve got some more music coming your way, but first, let's take a few calls from our listeners...”

Radio Rick pulled back from the microphone, allowing his expression to shift into something distant and disinterested. He retreated from the sound of his own charismatic voice and waved a lazy hand toward his co-host, gesturing for DJ Morty to put the first caller through.

“—I-I’m on?–Shit. Okay, give me a second to catch my breath…” The voice of a Rick filled the silence and just as quickly drifted away with a jarring audio disturbance. The sound of a deep inhale lingered through the phone’s speaker, quickly followed by a series of sharp hacking coughs. After a few awkward moments, the live caller’s presence fully returned, clearing his mucousy throat right into Radio’s ear as he began.

“...Ahem...so yeah, long time listener, first-time caller— _cough—_ I own a record store in the Slums called R’s and I've been playing your station on my public waves over the past few days...”

Already unimpressed at the dry chafing sound of the Rick’s voice, Radio muted his mic and settled in for what was undoubtedly going to be another long-winded bitchfest about nothing (but his listeners loved a good open mic rant). He kicked his feet up onto the station’s desk and leaned back into the seconds passing between them.

The Rick sounded as disinterested in what was coming out of his mouth as Radio was in hearing it. _“Long time listener, first-time caller”?_ He almost snorted aloud at overused cliché, stealing a quick glance from his co-host as he rolled his eyes in the shared obscurity of their sound booth. To his amusement, DJ stuck two silent fingers down his throat in response, and Radio grinned before reluctantly returning his attention to their caller.

A persistent sense of boredom had stagnated Radio Rick’s work performance as of late, and despite his own acute awareness of it, he’d been unable to fully prevent it from sneaking past his mic and into the ears of the Citadel.

“—But look. I don’t give a fuck about all that.”

Lucky for Radio Rick, however, today, his live caller moved on from what he seemed to consider _adequate pleasantries,_ before changing his tune entirely. His caller confrontationally coughed into Radio’s ear.

“I'm calling in with some sage advice. _One music establishment to another...”_

The Rick’s voice suddenly shifted into a righteously indignant tone, and at the tonal hairpin turn, Radio couldn't help but perk his ears to listen in: It was exactly the kind of distraction he’d needed.

“...Don't get me wrong,” The caller broke away for another brash dehydrated cough, “I-I’m a Rick who enjoys a good setlist, but _yeeesh. Goddamn,_ you had one job. Would it fuckin’ kill you to get off the beaten path every now and then? I-I-I heard that _cheerleader_ song in the same lineup every hour and a half for eight hours _at least._ What kind of music are you even moderating—Like, what's even with this _Radio Rick's Sanchez Summer Sizzle_ shit anyways?"

It had been too long since the last Rick had decided to fuck around with Radio. Long enough that the vocal personality had forgotten how much he missed it: the occasional caller who attempted to commandeer his show to platform their own agendas or the “anonymous” listeners hidden in the Citadel shadows who’d tried (and failed) to get his voice canceled.

Most Citadel citizens stepped lightly around Radio Rick because one only had to tune in to his station to know that he was a ruthless information broker, but _this_ Rick… he didn't seem to give a _fuck_ who he was giving his quote-unquote _sage advice_ to, and Radio couldn't help the way his self-amused grin widened as he listened to his caller take a public shit on everything from Radio’s music choices to the laws of physics inherent to the Citadel they spun in.

He cocked a brow at the frisky low-brow sound quality currently bitching its way into his ears, thoroughly entertained by the demand for his attention; and his caller certainly had it. The voice unrelentingly moaned on and Radio was far too enamored by its presence to interrupt.

“—Seasons _don't even exist_ on the Citadel. You—You can't just _decide_ it's summer! It’s already bad enough that the Rickholes in power decided to fuck around with time out here, _but now_ we’ve got some deep-state-bluenoser declaring seasons for ‘em like this place is some sort of destination holiday! _Fuck Me!—”_

Stranded in a spinning microcosm like the Citadel, Ricks were bored off their asses and just as thirsty for a juicy take, so it wasn’t all that surprising that sensationalized Rick-centric schadenfreude was its own booming industry. In fact, Radio Rick considered his assignment as “ _The Citadel Gossip”_ an act of public service.

He loved watching his ratings swell with the Citadel listeners (and more than a few in-dimensional Ricks) who tuned in with one hand down their pants just to listen to the beat of their own collective invasion of privacy go live. There was no doubt in Radio’s cybernetic mind that his current caller, R, was the poster audience persona of fetishized self-loathing. The kind Radio had long ago learned how to turn a profit on.

Radio’s skin prickled at the low baritone sound of R’s gravelly voice blowing its angry frustrated load over everything that had come out of the radio personality’s mouth, and pleased with the fruits of his hard labor, Radio leaned into the dry one-sided masturbatory conversation as R, _angry caller number one,_ stroked his raging hardon to the climactic fucking point of his ire.

“—W-what gives you the fuckin _’ huevos_?”

Radio pulled the cardioid microphone in close, kissing the sensitive muscle of his lips against the pop filter, and listened to the feedback of his own breath eagerly pushing itself out of his chest, eyes alight with the on-air invitation. He licked his lips into an antagonistic smirk, and eager laughter spilled past them in a low teasing chuckle.

“Oh...listeners!” Radio tsked with the endearing paternalistic tone he only spoke to his long-time listeners with, “It sounds like grandpapi has found himself a _cheerleader_!”

“R? You said your name was?” Radio’s cybernetic eye parsed the audio transcript, preparing to give it the attention his caller thought it deserved, “Lemme tell you, R, it's always nice to hear from such an _avid fan,_ and I hear you, _mijo_.—You wanna spice things up between us.—I’m game. _Especially_ if you can go for _eight hours straight with me...”_

Radio paused for the intended subtextual effect, before releasing a perfectly-timed groan of arousal at the thought, “Mmmmm, Fuck me, I love a Rick with stamina. But dulce, baby. You're sending me mixed signals here. First, you want me to key up the variety here at the station—but then you don't wanna _déjame entregártelo.”_

“Yeah, that's cause you might wanna do a dick check—take a look at what your _parolito for capitalism_ did to your fucking taste in music—I-I-It’s not even trying to be creative! It’s just trying to sell more goddamn—fucking earworms—ugh, they’re the equivalent of the Shitadel clap! I mean, how long’s _This Summer even_ gonna fucking last in this decelerated dimension—”

R rambled on as the irritation in his voice audibly and exasperatedly grew, “— _Days? Weeks? Years?_ You don’t even have the degrees of freedom!—Just because _you_ deigned to announce it on-air like some fuckin’—”

“—Hey, you said it.” Radio couldn’t help but cheekily interrupt his caller before it geared up into an entirely new soapbox spheil. He’d wasted enough of everyone’s time, “I just love the idea of my voice in your ears… all day long, baby… listening to my sound for hours and hours...and _hours_ …”

When R didn’t immediately take the bait and respond to the insinuation, Radio sighed, signaling to give the Rick what he _really_ wanted: someone to contest with.

“Well, don't break your arm jerking yourself over this _novel concept_ on _my behalf,_ but time’s relative, _mijo_. We control it as easily as we control the fucking weather, which, getting myself back to your loaded question...” Radio spilled a stream of conspiratorial laughter before letting his throat relax into a lowered vocal register.

“...I’ve got the balls to say it's summer, _so it's fuckin’ summer,”_ The robust sound of his heated nonchalance reverberated into the warming air, “‘N’ if that makes you a little hot under the collar, R, why not just lose the damn labcoat? Enjoy the feel-good hit of the season with me! After all, I’m only pulling _a few_ strings on the Citadel to lasso a star for us to spin around.”

The illusion of time passing. The rotation of seasons on the Citadel was its own lucrative industry, and high-end businesses in the Tourist District were already announcing their summer sales as the rest of the Citadel scrambled to catch up.

The intoxicating sound of smug satisfaction saturated Radio’s words as the station runner spoke openly about moving the Citadel with his voice alone, but internally, he knew that artificial seasons on the Citadel were far bigger than his vocal persona. While a very significant portion of Sanchez Citadel Radio’s revenue came from the fact that his voice was an integral cog in that well-oiled machine, Radio had always been smart enough to know that he was only ever getting to pick the song.

But he didn't want to hear his own deadbeat thoughts about that.

Instead, Radio Rick wanted to listen to the bitchy little echo of his own voice that had, for a sultry second, made all of those damned political machinations so easy to forget about. He leaned his cheek into the warmth of his open palm, and with his other, trailed a gentle finger around the edge of his pop filter. He forced a smile into his own saccharine words, forcing them to sound less jaded than they actually felt.

“Don't kid yourself, R, if stopping time that was something we—and I'm speaking of us as a collective right now...me, you, every Rick on this spinning hunk of metal—If we really wanted that. We'd make it happen. But when the universe is already ours...why even think about it?”

R let out an agitated groan, entirely unpressed by the radio personality’s vocal foreplay. Unperturbed, Radio continued to cajole his listener, “So cut this _season of the bitch_ bullshit, baby, and take _my advice_...one music establishment to another...”

Radio held his breath to count the deliciously saturated seconds of tension between them.

“Don't be afraid to turn up the heat.”

 _“Oh, fuck me!”_ At his limit, R exasperated into his phone before disconnecting in an angry huff, and the unbroken flatline of his absence persisted into the quiet on-air silence.

Radio immediately went back to work.

“—Uh oh! Looks like I scared my cheerleader away!” Without missing a beat, Radio’s voice feigned surprise while he was already pulling listener data in real-time. He bounced it onto the interface over his soundboard and with the help of his co-host, Radio was able to multitask on-air. He reviewed the listener’s profile data as he and DJ traced the station’s still-connected phone line all the way to East Sanchez Heights. _Figures_.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when his cybernetics successfully pinged the outdated equipment of a _landline_ that R had been tuning in from. Of-fucking-course _“Record Store Rick”_ would still be using the kind of highly-vulnerable anachronistic tech that made his data queries _so easy._ R may have disconnected his voice from their heated phone talk, but the data still showed that his record store owner was still secretly tuning in with a _cutting edge_ Toshiba Rt-s913 Stereo Boombox.

While the listener data could prove the connection still lingered between them, Radio’s analytics still had their limitations. He could only hope his snarky record store owner was still stressfully lighting up next to his ghettoblaster: he couldn't exactly goad empty air into calling him back.

“But _no te preocupes_ , listeners. We all know he's still among you...don’t we.” Aware of the precious seconds he was loosing, Radio reassuringly laughed with an overtone of certainty. He fully returned his attention to the microphone and updated his audience with the very air of mass-surveillance presence.

“Listen, baby, I know you can hear me. You wanna feel time pass?” Radio queued a song on the holo-screen putting his all into the only part of the equation he could control.

“This next track is three minutes and forty-four seconds—oh, with a few picoseconds of silence on each end and it's _just for you, mijo._ Close your eyes and feel it with me…cause I’m gonna let it take good care of you...”

Tongue in cheek, he pressed play:

_♬ This summer’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker... ♬_

Radio held his breath until the ‘on-air’ sign flickered off, and without hesitation, DJ expanded a window of climbing listener stats on the holographic interface-wall between them. His enthusiastic voice barreled into the studio’s intercom with congratulations.

“We're lighting up, Rad! The Citadel’s hella thirsty for your voice making love to the mic like that!” He proudly poked at the numbers on-screen between them, and Radio watched the barrier ripple outward from DJ’s excited finger taps. The mixture of light created the look and semi-physical feel of glass, but the high-frequency sound waves humming through the barrier like electricity actively canceled out any surrounding noise.

It was a sleight of technology that Radio had worked up with the shoestring budget the Citadel Media Network had given him, and it was the kind of shitty rig that was only possible with a co-host like DJ, who had worked with the radio personality long enough that he could read and anticipate Radio’s thoughts in real-time.

Radio’s eyes remained focused on the listener profile, ignoring DJ’s intuitive look as his co-host glared through the interface between them. The song playing in the ambiance of his sound booth practically eternal, and with each passing second Radio was losing hope. He reached up toward his ears with the intent of ripping his headphones off, but DJ interrupted his movements.

“—Don't even trip, Rad.” Dj’s confident voice transmitted back into the booth as he aimed a pen at his station runner, “He’s gonna call back. We're not even a minute in. When he does– and he will, I’ll put him through first!”

“—Well, if he doesn’t, I’m giving you grunt work all next week.” Radio huffed, slumping back into his chair. DJ ignored Radio’s silent sulking, smoothly waving it away as the incoming call button lit up between them.

“Chillax, Rad. This radio wingman’s _got you!_ ”

Radio listened to the sound of his partner fielding calls in the background and he did his best to ignore the yearning for excitement stirring in his chest. He slumped against his palm, trying to figure out how he could spin things once _This Summer_ came to an end, but then DJ’s voice caught his attention.

“...R? Hell yeah dawg, I'll queue you up right!”

Radio sat up straight, taking a deep breath as he hustled to shake the tension out of his shoulders. He swallowed, watching his co-host sign a countdown from five, and DJ nodded toward the soundboard just as the _Maroon 5_ came to an end and the noise barrier re-activated.

They were live, and Radio wet his lips; slipping back into character as the “on-air” light galvanized his voice back into its vibrant life.

“—That was _This Summer by Maroon 5_ , and _surprise surprise_ , listeners, it looks like our cheerleader is back on the line, ready to flash us the low-hanging pom-poms.” Radio smirked, letting the expression bleed into his voice. “We'll give him an encore—but first, a word from our Citadel sponsors:”  
  


> _♬ Sitting pretty in the prime of life, I'm so tasty and the price is right... ♬_  
>    
>  Celebrate the Summer Sizzle at Big Rico’s Pizzeria! Located off the main line of the Citadel Central Hyperloop! A large cut in the Tourist District is sure to satisfy the existential void in your stomach! You know what Big Rico always says: If you’re still not sold on his offer, he’d love to send you a sample, on the house.
> 
> _  
> “No one does a slice like Big Rico… **No one.”**_

Radio ignored the blinking orange “on hold” caller light as the sounds of a pre-recorded advertisement filled paid air-time. _Take a Slice_ by the Glass Animals played alongside DJ Morty’s voiceover for one of Sanchez Citadel Radio’s longest-standing clients—A personal favorite, Radio had picked the musical accompaniment for the ad, feeling that the dark overtones of the alternative pop song were a good fit for the shady business.

The thought of Radio’s caller, on the other line, stewing while he was made to impatiently wait for said ad about summer deals to finish brought a self-amused and mildly competitive smile to Radio’s face. He may have shown a bit of his hand chasing after his lost caller, but now that he had him back on the line, Radio’s confidence and sense of control returned in full. R had been a mouthful, but he wouldn’t cut their conversation short again.

“—SCR greatly appreciates our sponsors. We don’t forget who’s keeping us on the air.” Rico’s ad came to a close, and Radio positioned the microphone front and center, “And for our listeners, I can practically feel the electricity buzzing across my dash with your anticipation! So let's not keep our long time listener, _second-time caller_ waiting any longer...”

Radio connected the call, feeling a rush of excitement as the ambient hum of white-noise-air brushed against his ears, followed by the harsh sound of the caller’s breath which filled them.

“—You’re live on SCR for the Summer Sizzle Countdown with Radio Rick!” Radio playfully unmuted his caller’s line, biting his lower lip in anticipation of R’s undoubtedly rough verbal response.

“Y-yeah. I-I-I’m not gonna waste your non-existent time. I’m just calling back in to set the record straight between us—”

“—You don’t wanna have a little fun under the sun?” Radio Rick couldn’t have stopped the shit-eating grin that spread across his face in response to the snarly, bitchy tone of his new favorite caller if he’d tried. This Rick ran hot, and It was as exhilarating as the start of the season.

“—Look. I don’t really give a _fuck_ who’s drinking your summer-time kool-aid.—”

“—Shame you don’t wanna waste my time this summer. What’s there to do _but waste it?”_ Radio drawled, languidly pulling his mic into a more intimate embrace as he cooed. “We’ve got ourselves an eternity, after all.—”

“—Ugh. Look–” The voice on the other line interjected, disdain palpable on his tongue. “–I get it. Every Rick’s gotta make a living and you’ve got _Big Daddy Rickenomics_ so far up your ass that you’re convinced you shit gold...”

Radio’s lips parted as he was made to listen to the distinctive soundbyte of what could only be the Rick unapologetically lighting up for the whole of the Citadel to hear. R had taken a practically pornographic slow sultry hit of a bong, making sure the illegal crackle of his burning bud bubbled into every crevice of the Citadel for a few scandalous seconds.

Radio didn't know what turned him on more, the idea of just how _good_ that illegal sound was going to be for his ratings, or the sheer audacity of the Rick that had made it.

“Mmmm...Fuck.” R exhaled a pleasured groan of satisfaction, and Radio joined him in relishing the resulting violent cough that skipped for a few broken seconds until R suddenly hacked up a mucous sounding chunk, then swallowed it on-air.

“With all the bulk data you’re getting outta me for tuning in?” R challenged, “I could probably tax this flat ass for days.”

“Oh, don’t worry baby, I’ve got you covered. I’m selling it right now...” Radio played into R’s insinuation. His bulk collection monetization methods and data-brokering tactics were dirty secrets to no one who truly mattered on the Citadel. In fact, reinforcing the Radio host’s ruthlessness to acquire it only reassured _The Rick and Powerful_ on the Citadel who Radio _was_ accountable to, the value of their investment in him.

Radio Rick enjoyed the small act of anarchy nonetheless. Nothing quite sold Radio like the feeling of authenticity—and this Rick couldn’t even be bothered to care how valuable it was. R was rough around the edges in a way Radio had had no idea he'd become so unused to, and _the sheer realness of it_ had been a complete shock to his system. Radio licked his drying lips—well beyond wanting to settle for a taste—he wanted to sink his teeth into the feeling in full.

R continued to set the record straight between them, “Yeah, you are. Which is why I gotta tell you, Radio. I’m not _your_ listener, tuning in.” He dry-coughed into the high which had mellowed his voice out, but it was still just as scorched-earth in tone, “You’re playing on _my_ soundwaves.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong, and now that they had straightened that minor inconvenience out, the needle of their conversation plunged into _just the right_ groove, stirring an electric friction that dragged through the seconds between them. Radio latched onto his instrument and shared a shamelessly aroused hum of approval. It was time to give R a taste of the Rick he’d decided to fuck with.

“Mmmm, that's _exactly_ where I am, baby: an earworm, gently fucking that overeager organ of yours _for hours_ while I sink _deeper and deeper_ into your subconscious. I’m counting down to the feel-good hit of the summer. Think you can take all of it, _mijo?”_

The sound of R’s heady exhale breathed out in dead silence against Radio’s ears, and he palmed himself, feeling the temperature of the sound booth suddenly climb.

“I don't need to hear you say it, baby.” His tongue brushed against the fine mesh of his filter, and Radio let out a frustrated growl at the thought of the distance between them. “I _know_ what I'm doing to you. What I _can_ do to you. Every day, on the regular. Just the way you like it...”

With the static between them fully charged, Radio grinned, flipping the switch on his soundboard to disconnect: Give that fucker a taste of his own music.

He laughed; a voice full of conspiratorial promise.

“Stay tuned to the _Sanchez_ _Summer Sizzle Countdown_ for more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the [ fic page ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/guitar-man.html) for art, endnotes and more!

**Author's Note:**

> ###  The Starry Citadel AU 
> 
> ✦ [Fic Art & Endnotes](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/guitar-man.html)  
> ✦ [Radio Rick's Citadel Top 40 Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3J9nNGvcQyq8CKerQ0mtYg?si=yylQxNwjRbKZs1wybWdjMA)  
> ✦ [The Rick on The Radio (Guitar Man) Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0QogZ4STj4BrbApx4Wx32R?si=xnCthoW1ToaYcKdczleTFA)  
> ✦ [Sanchez Summer Sizzle Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ihd7GyzuURDXHgN5qUD1D?si=tny8jx4PQ7iWLzF9nj-ehw)  
> 
> 
> ### Kudos & Comments = ❤ 
> 
> Thanks for reading, kudo, comment, and subscribe. Check out the other works in the [ Starry Citadel AU. ](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/index.html)


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